Wreck of the Day
by tragicsleep
Summary: Harry Potter is giving up. On Hogwarts. On love. On everything. Is it too late to stop him from committing an unrepairable mistake? I'm bad at summaries. But the story is better than this sounds. WARNING: this is SLASH.


_This is my first slash story, so pardon me if it's bad. The copyrights of Harry Potter & co. belong to JK Rowling, as we are all aware. The song is written by Anna Nalick. Please leave reviews so that I know whether this is any good or not, I'd love to know what you think._

**Wreck of the ****Day**

by tragicsleep

_Driving away from the wreck of the day and the light's always red in the rear-view Desperately close to a coffin of hope, I'd cheat destiny just to be near you_

And if this is giving up then I'm giving up  
If this is giving up then I'm giving up, giving up on love  
on love

Driving away from the wreck of the day and I'm thinking 'bout calling on Jesus

_'Cause love doesn't hurt so I know I'm not falling in love_

_I'm just falling to pieces_

And if this is giving up then I'm giving up  
If this is giving up then I'm giving up, giving up on love  
on love

Maybe I'm not up for being a victim of love  
All my resistance will never be distance enough

Driving away from the wreck of the day and it's finally quiet in my head

_Driving alone, finally on my way home to the comfort of my bed_

And if this is giving up then I'm giving up  
If this is giving up then I'm giving up, giving up on love  
on love

_- Anna Nalick_

He doesn't see me. At least, not in the way I wish he would. His eyes are always clouded by hatred, by our past, by the barriers and rules and obligations others have set around us. His eyes are as clouded as the stormy skies of late February, when the sky doesn't know whether it should snow or rain, either way chasing the students back into the confines of the castle, laughing and slipping and holding books over their heads. I can imagine Madam Pince's outrage if she saw how they handle her precious ancient manuscripts as shields from the unforgiving rain and careless snowflakes.

But that's beside the point. Where was I? Oh, yes. Stormy skies, clouded eyes, all that. Stormy and clouded. Funny, how that not only describes the emotion behind his glances, but also the colour of those looks. Those turbulent grey-silver looks which never cease to make my heart skip a beat, accelerate, stop still, do somersaults and all those other acrobatic tricks that hearts are not accustomed to. Does he even know what effect his eyes have on me?

Doubtful. But there are times, moments, when he smirks at me across the Great Hall, something sparkling in those noxious eyes, as if he knows my secret. I never could stop my blood from turning into ice if I would have wanted to. I would probably spontaneously combust of humiliation if he knew, if he found out. Though, realistically, the chances are minimal. I have taken my precautions. No one knows, except my heart and its consistent adversary, my mind. The two spend the majority of the day debating my feelings for him.

"_This isn't healthy!"_ my mind screams.

"_Love rarely is,"_ the heart replies.

In the end the answer is always the same: what does it matter since I will die soon anyway? I am seventeen years old, having technically been a Muggle in actions and thoughts until I turned eleven. I am not particularly bright and seem to give out some strange kind of pheromones or something which attract trouble like bees to honey. _Sheer, dumb luck._ That is what saves me every time. And, of course, Dumbledore, without whom I would have died half a dozen deaths by now.

But that was before. Before Sirius disappeared (yes, I am too much of a coward to admit the likelihood that he is dead and not coming back). Before the prophecy, _either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_, yadda yadda yadda. Before Ginny died by Bellatrix's wand (that makes two that she has taken from me) at the end of my sixth year in the Forbidden Forest. Before I found a definition for all those feelings and thoughts that course through me every time I see even a quick flash of platinum in the corner of my eye; or every time I unintentionally meet his gaze with my own; or when he passes me in the hallway, without giving me a glance, as if I don't exist.

Strange, how things have changed since that day in the Department of Mysteries. I was so intent on saving Sirius, so convinced that it was the right thing to do, that it was all happening and if I wouldn't get there quickly enough… I thought it was real. But it never was. And now he is Merlin knows where, experiencing who knows what, in God knows what state. Never does a day pass when a certain thought dashes through my mind: what if, right at this moment, Sirius is in pain? What if he is suffering, being tortured, beaten and crippled? That hangs over my head relentlessly. That is all my doing.

Of course, Hermione, Ron and a few others continue to tell me on an almost daily basis that I am not at fault here.

"Harry, you couldn't have stopped it from happening," Hermione's concerned voice states firmly.

"Yeah, mate. You-Know-Who plotted those thoughts there. Nothing you could do about it," Ron backs up through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

But their voices are like scratched static escaping from a broken radio. I know of its existence but it has no influence on my life.

Dumbledore gave me Occlumency lessons throughout my sixth year. So now Voldemort doesn't plant thoughts of my friends being tortured in my head anymore. I don't see Muggles being cursed over and over and _over_ again in my dreams anymore. I should be able to sleep now. So why don't I?

It took intensive classes, three times a week, to get a relatively suitable grasp of Occlumency. Snape refused to even consider taking me as a student again. Though he was unpleasantly surprised and beyond aggravated when I (miraculously) got accepted into his N.E.W.T.s Potions class. I still have a feeling that they mucked something up in the Ministry, or wherever they check those kinds of things. Wouldn't be their first time, after all.

However, that doesn't matter. It's just another couple of hours I can spend observing him from the back of the classroom, where I (mostly unsuccessfully) attempt to brew a potent potion. At this point I am the only Potions student who still manages to get his cauldron to explode regularly. Ron thinks I am worthy of a trophy of my own by now, considering how many times I've scrubbed all the other ones during the detentions Snape gives me.

It's worth the backaches and calluses, the mornings when I can hardly keep my eyes open, the smell of magical detergent on my clothes. It's worth just to see the way his hair reflects in the dim torchlight of the dungeons. It's worth seeing his pale aristocratic hands move expertly as he cuts ingredients to minuscule precise portions, then stirs his cauldron with the uttermost care and concentration. I am certain that if his family and social status would have allowed it, he would have loved to become a Potions Master. But I heard that ancient pureblood families like his do not allow such "manual" and "common" deeds to be more than just a hobby.

I spend quite a lot of time wondering what he would have been like, were it not for his ancestors, his family obligations, his upbringing. Would he still have amused himself by insulting my friends and me, like he did for the first five years of us knowing each other? Would he still have treated Muggle-borns as if they were the scum of the earth? Would he have ridiculed Hagrid and put his post into jeopardy? Once again, it is my heart that wins this battle. Yes, I believe that he would have been different.

But I can't change the past. At least, not legally. Time-turners are already rare enough as it is, and I doubt the Ministry would appreciate me borrowing one. And it's too late now, anyway. I have made up my mind. For once in my life, I will act selfishly. I will not care about anyone else but myself, my own desires, my own dreams. Well, perhaps not dreams and desires, since this is certainly not how I would have preferred my life to go, but my goals nonetheless. It's simple, really. I'm giving up. On life, on Hogwarts, on Quidditch. On love. On everything.

No, you do not have a say in this. And no, I will not listen to your feeble attempts at discouraging me. I will even ignore the rolling of eyes and snarled whispers of how much of a coward I am. Who are you to tell me what to do anyway?

My life has never been my own. It was all predestined, prewritten. I am sick of playing the role of the hero. I wasn't given a chance to refuse when the parts were distributed. Sure, along the way their plans have gone awry, the roads had to be rebuilt. Ginny's death, for example. The majority of the wizarding world was under the impression that we would marry as soon as she graduated, her raising our cluster of redheads whilst I'm off defeating Voldemort. Could they have been any more disappointed?

I don't know who they are marrying me off to of late. I don't read the papers anymore, whether it's the gossip columns or the front page. It's mostly the same these days anyhow. _This many Muggles killed in attack by Death Eaters_, or, _Auror X dies in St. Mungo's after being repeatedly hexed with Crucicatus Curse_.Different deaths, same story.

I wonder why the pain feels so acute, so ruthless. Sins of a past life probably catching up with me, karma and all that bollocks. And no, I am not wallowing in self-pity. I am merely contemplating certain subjects and stating the obvious. Don't judge me. I am not one of those depressed teens who haven't been given enough love as kids and see no alternative. Well, perhaps somewhat, I am. The difference is that I see the alternatives. I just don't like them.

I'm tired, so tired. I want to crawl, run, fly, drive, Floo – whatever. Just get the fuck away from here. Away from the wreck that my life has become. I wonder whether Dumbledore and all those other geniuses who wrote my destiny in the great fat Book of Life predicted this. No, your Golden Boy isn't all that golden. It's all dust, an optical illusion, glitter powder spilt on me by accident.

I want it to be quiet in my head. I want my heart to be still and silent for once. What is its motivation if what I feel will never be reciprocated? Why does it continue performing its gymnastics whenever he is around? Why does he not feel the same way?

Okay, Harry, snap out of it. You're becoming so pathetic that you're not thinking straight. The answer is obvious. He's a Death Eater's son, his father comes fourth on my enemy list, he is a pureblood, he is an aristocrat, he is filthy rich, he is so fucking beautiful that I become dizzy every time I stare at him for too long. Me? I am the son of parents who were killed by his father's master, his archenemy, a half-blood, befriended to Muggle-borns and Muggle-lovers, with a black bird's nest instead of hair and an ugly scar on my forehead. Plus, who would love someone who has the weight of the world on their shoulders?

I wish I could explain why I feel this way. I mean, there is absolutely no rational reasoning behind it. Only some masochistic emotionally-disturbed martyr could feel this way for someone who has tormented them for years. Okay, considering my past, perhaps it's not _that_ overly shocking and life-altering. But love's still a bitch though.

Did I just say love? No! Nonononono. Crush, it's only a crush. It can't be love. Love doesn't hurt, it's not supposed to. All those sappy romance novels, they depict love as something happy and cheerful and so tooth-achingly sweet that I gag at the mere thought of it. Love doesn't hurt. This isn't love, or being in love, or falling in love. This is falling to pieces. This is me breaking, with every beat, or skip, or cartwheel that my heart makes.

And so I am giving up. You should consider yourself lucky, you know. You're about to witness the last minutes of the Boy Who Lived. Imagine the money reporters will pay to hear your account of things. Yep, the _Daily Prophet_ will have a field day. Voldemort will probably be a bit disappointed though, considering he seemed rather keen on killing me himself. Well, tough shit, Tom.

I don't need much to leave. A knife is too messy. I wouldn't want to burden Dobby or some other poor house-elf with cleaning up the mess. A gun is out of the question, considering that Muggle appliances don't work in Hogwarts. Drinking a poison would be suicide (pardon the pun). Knowing my talentless nature at brewing them, I would have greater luck growing wings and a pig snout before I brew something remotely lethal. And that would lead to having those potion-induced features removed, which would lead to having to answer questions, which would lead to trouble. So I've decided on something clean and easy. _Avada Kedavra_. Do not give a sigh of relief and sneer at my stupidity. I have done my research and it _does_ work if you cast it on yourself. So _ha_.

So, here I am, in some dusty unused classroom on the fifth floor at around midnight on a cold Sunday in the month of February. I've always hated this month. It always passes so slowly, as if purposefully dragging on and on. Always so dark, so sombre and gloomy, only reinforcing feelings of solitude and melancholy. At its heart – a day for blissful fools and happy couples. Yes, definitively not a good month for me. Might as well end it prematurely.

I sit on the windowsill in the dark classroom, no torches or candles, just the moon in its post-full state. I wonder where Remus is. No one has seen or heard of him since Sirius's disappearance. He probably never wants to speak to me again. Well, his wish will be granted.

I don't know why I'm so hesitant. My hands tremble slightly as I play around with my wand, twirling it between my fingers. Its smooth polish, which shone with a pleasant lustre when I just got it, has dimmed over the years. Excessive use and carelessness on my part, I admit. But I was never known to be precautious or heedful, was I?

Why is this taking so long? The weight of my right arm has increased tenfold and I'm having trouble raising it, as if my nerves refuse to transmit the message from my brain to my muscles. It is amazing, though, how such a small thin object can cause so much trouble, how it transfers so much energy and power from the wizard to its aim.

I am stalling, I know. I never said that I was brave, people just naturally assumed it. A hero can't behave cowardly, and a coward can't act as a hero. I am just a freak of nature, as my uncle calls me, an unnatural phenomenon. And like all unusual and abnormal things, my expiration date comes earlier than that of the norm.

I can't stall anymore. I have to do this soon. I have to do this now. I have to do-

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

A shuddering breath. My right eye twitches open. Is the realm of the afterlife supposed to look like an unused classroom? My wand is still pointed at my chest, gripped so firmly that my knuckles are white. _Okay_…so I am the Boy Who Lived…Twice. Let's give it another try then.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Another breath. Yep, still alive. What the hell? Can't I even do _this_ right?

"_Avada Kedavra_."

This time I keep my eyes open. I see the bright deadly light travel the short distance and hit me square in between my lungs, an inch or so from where my heart is. The light just dissipates, leaving behind a breathing and very much alive body. This is becoming rather tedious.

"_Avada Kedavra_._ Avada Kedavra_?_ Avada Kedavra_! _Avada Kedavra_!_ Avada_-"

I am interrupted in my consistently-failing suicide attempt when my wand is suddenly snatched from my hand. Looking up, the fleeting thought that "no need for a wand, I will die of fucking heart failure" passes through my mind. _He_ is standing in front of me, glaring at me as he puts my wand in the back pocket of his trousers.

"What. The fuck. Are you _doing_, Potter?" he manages to get through his gritted teeth and pursed lips.

He looks so absolutely livid that I'm thinking he will pull out his own wand and use the same curse on me that I have been so desperately trying to achieve seconds before.

"I…err…"

"Are you fucking _stupid_? Why the _fuck_ are you Killing Curse-ing yourself? Is this some sort of fucking _joke_? Well, it's not fucking _funny_, you fucking idiot!"

I don't think I've ever heard anyone "fuck"-ing so often in so little time.

"Answer me! What did you think you were trying to achieve?"

Finally strangling down my surprise (and fear, I have to admit. Who wouldn't be scared witless seeing him in such a state?), I manage to whisper out, "Isn't it obvious enough?"

I refuse to look at him any longer. His eyes are condescending, his posture so full of hatred and anger. I should have stuck with poisons, however bad a potion-brewer I am.

"Well, considering that the curse you were using on yourself is the _Killing_ Curse, death is usually the desired result," he said mordantly.

I sneak a peek at him. He is looking over my shoulder at the school grounds below. All of a sudden, it's as if his whole body deflates. His shoulders slump and his arms hang loosely at his sides instead of crossed across his chest. The soft moonlight illuminates his tired features, making him look older than his seventeen years. Is this how he is when his guard is down?

"Why, Harry?" his voice comes out in a whisper, a puff of air in the cold classroom.

Completely taken aback, I can do nothing but stare. He just called me Harry. Not Potter, or Scarhead, or Potty. _Harry_. If I thought that my heart was beating fast before, it's running a bloody marathon now.

"Why?" he asks again.

His stormy clouded eyes slowly reach my own and my breath is caught in my throat. I couldn't have answered if it were physically possible. His mask is still on, I can tell, but there are cracks. His eyes, usually so cold and hard, like the walls of this castle, have changed. So much like mercury. This one look is doomed to drive me insane. A shiver passes through my whole body, and I can tell that he noticed.

He takes a seat on a stray table opposite me, obviously not before taking out his wand and spelling it free of dust. His long lean legs hang off the edge, slightly apart. I bless whatever deities that have influence over his wardrobe for his robe-less state. He is so perfect that I have to look away before I start drooling.

"So?" he breaks my musings on what types of dessert I would like to eat off his chest.

"So what?" I ask hesitantly. I always seem to hesitate around him these days.

"You haven't answered my question yet."

He seems more cool and collected now. His usual disdainful expression is back on his face, as if he didn't just witness the Boy Who Lived attempt suicide, repetitively. This irritates me, for some reason. And that reason is that, somewhere deep down, my heart was whispering to me, _"He cares." _His current stance evidently suggests otherwise.

"And why the hell would you care?" I bark out, heat rising to my face in anger, my arms firmly planted at my sides, gripping the edge of the windowsill.

"It's not every day that I catch the wizarding world's Golden Boy pull his wand on himself."

Always this mocking attitude, as if he is better than everyone else, superior. If only he knew that I agree. He _is_ better, he _is_ superior to everyone else. At least to me he is. If he weren't such an arse and if his ego wasn't already as big as Hagrid, I would probably tell him. Hell, I'd kiss the ground he walks on and polish his broom with my tongue (both literally and in the perverse sense).

"Big effing deal. Now give me back my wand and get out. What are you doing here this late anyway?"

Yeah, curiosity killed the cat and will probably do me in as well.

"Not that it is any of your business," he spurns and looks away, "but I was planning to take a bath in the Prefects' bathroom. Pansy was slobbering all over me in the common room and her saliva is as potent as basilisk venom."

Ah, so his supposed girlfriend isn't held in such high regard. Though I doubt that they're officially a couple. I've heard the rumours of his sexual dexterity. Who hasn't? The Great Hall buzzes every Monday morning, gossiping on who the Slytherin has bedded over the weekend. I, of course, get so jealous and envious that I'm sure the tips of my ears turn green. Lucky bitches. Or bastards, since supposedly he shags guys too. So perhaps I _do_ stand a chance… No, stop that train of thought right there. We've discussed this before, heart. So shut up.

"Having problems in paradise?" I ask sardonically. Yes, I can be snarky too.

"What paradise? She knows perfectly well that just because my father, only once and years ago, mentioned a possible marriage contract, doesn't mean that we're betrothed. That girl is delusional. I'm surprised that she's not failing all her classes, considering how much time she spends in her own little world. I can just see her scheming what she'll spend the Malfoy fortune on. Half of our vaults would be empty within a year."

Wow, I think that's the most words he has ever spoken to me, civilly, that is. He might be bitching at someone, but hey, at least it's not me for once. Though I do have to admit that he hasn't been affronting me lately, ever since the start of sixth-year. He simply avoids or ignores me. He has even stopped calling Hermione a Mudblood, and no longer makes fun of Ron's financial misfortunes. At first I was glad, this deceitful heart of mine hoping that we could become friends. But after months of being invisible to him, I've realized that it was, once again, wishful thinking. Whilst before we were enemies, at least it was something substantial. Now we're nothing, just schoolmates, two seventh-years amongst the many.

"So you're not dating then?" I enquire, tentatively once again.

"Are you deaf, Potter? Of course not."

So it's back to Potter again, heh?

"Well, what am I supposed to call you? Oh Great and Mighty Defeater of the Dark Lord and Defender of all things Muggle?" he says.

Oops. Did I just say that out loud?

"Er… Harry would be appropriate. That is my name, after all."

We fall into an awkward silence. I want him to leave, so I can plot some other way of ending my days. But on the other hand, I want him to stay. I want to speak to him more, get to know the man behind the mask. I want to befriend him. Okay, who am I kidding? I also want to snog the living daylights out of him. But I doubt that he'd allow me to do that just yet, or ever.

He shifts on the table and leans forward, giving the impression that he is about to stand up. I tense up and can't help the shrill and pathetic words which fly out of my mouth, "Don't go!"

Damn. Well, I guess that answers the question on whether I wanted his presence around me or not.

An arrogant and questioning eyebrow arches up, the colour just a few shades darker than his hair. So perfectly shaped, so smooth. My fingers itch to trace it, find out whether my hypothesis is right. I want to explore the plains and curves of his face, feel whether his skin is as soft as in my dreams. And those lips. Those lips have been the protagonist of a hundred of my fantasies. All the while, that treacherous heart keeps goading me, _"Touch him, caress him, kiss him. Just once."_ But I know that once will never be enough. If I find out how he feels and how he tastes, I would never be able to give it up. I would die of withdrawal, my addiction would drive me mad.

"Potter, you still in this world?" he asks.

"Harry," I correct him, the word automatic.

"You know, _Harry_," those r's roll off his tongue so sensually, like a cat purring, "you still haven't answered my question, whilst I have answered yours."

Oh. Damn him and his stubbornness. But I guess I'm not one to talk, bearing in mind that I have been scolded about my own obstinate streak. I believe that a Gryffindor wouldn't be a Gryffindor without stubbornness though.

"Well, you chose to answer my questions all on your own. It's not like I'm holding you at wand point here."

Yes, I know that my attempts at avoiding answering are pitiable.

"No, you're not, since I have your wand in my pocket, having taken it from you before you could do something stupid. But, oh no," a mock look of surprise appears on his face, "you were in the middle of doing that already!"

Why can't he be amnesiac, or senile? No, him being senile would involve him being old, and I'm not really into wrinkled elderly men. Plus, old age doesn't necessarily involve being senile, as Dumbledore proves to me every day. That man has the memory of an elephant.

"Quit stalling, Harry."

Dear Merlin, I think I preferred it when he called me Potter. The way my name vibrates in his throat and passes through his mouth and escapes into the air around us – it's as if he is purposefully torturing me. It's as if instead of "Harry" he is reciting some dirty erotic poetry or something of the sort. I'll never complain about having a common and boring name again. It's the best name in the world, especially when it is said by him.

"You know, I'm starting to think that those A.K.'s have caused some brain damage," he comments lightly.

"And I'm starting to think that you actually give a shit about me," I reply.

He scoffs, "Who in the wizarding world doesn't."

So that's what I am to him – the Boy Who Lived, the one who survived the Killing Curse (on numerous occasions) and escaped Voldemort (again, on numerous occasions). Just like for the rest of the magical community, I am simply a symbol, a kind of beacon of hope, someone to laden their burdens with. Why did I believe that he would think of me any differently? Oh, yeah, my heart was tricking me again.

"You know, why don't you just give me back my wand and go about on your business? I swear that I'll go back to the Gryffindor common room and won't try to A.K. myself on the way."

"Right," he sniggers, "so you can experiment with other means of suicide tomorrow, or the day after, or next week? I don't think so."

He's said the word now. He knows perfectly well what I was trying to do, sitting alone in this cold classroom with that deadly spell aimed at myself. Somehow, that scares me. What if he tells someone? I couldn't stand the Slytherins ridiculing me about this. Or worse, what if he tells Snape or Dumbledore? Shit. I should have locked the bloody door. Told you that I was never known to be precautious or heedful, didn't I?

"But…" he hesitates, a thoughtful look on his face as he taps his lips with his index finger (and I cannot help but stare), "perhaps I should just tell Dumbledore and let him deal with it."

"No! Don't you dare!"

"And why not?"

"Because this is a private matter-"

"_And_ I am sitting here discussing it with you."

"-on which you have intruded!"

"Good thing too. Merlin knows what would have happened if I wouldn't have."

"Why don't you just get out? Why are you still here?" I shout out.

At this point we are both standing, the air around us is practically sizzling with electricity, angry green eyes glaring into angry grey eyes. Even furious, he manages to look stunning, like an angered god about to strike a mere mortal like myself with his wrath.

"Because I fucking care," he snarls, adding in a barely audible whisper, "about you."

If it weren't for his lips moving slightly, I would have thought I imagined it. But then, almost immediately, he realizes what he has said. A flicker of shock passes in his eyes. Faster than one can say "**Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes**", he spins around and slams my wand down on the table he previously occupied, clearly intending to leave the classroom as quickly as he can. I don't think so.

"_Claudo Exitus_," I say quietly under my breath, pointing at the door.

He twists the handle, no such luck. Giving me a quick glare over his shoulder, he takes out his own wand.

"_Alohomora_."The door rattles, but remains locked.

"You should know that I wouldn't use a spell which a first-year can break," I say, surprised at how calm my voice sounds.

"Let me out, Potter," he growls as he faces me once again, and I am somewhat taken aback at how…feline-like he becomes when furious.

If I weren't armed, I would have probably cowered in fear and obeyed immediately. He can be as terrifying as Snape at times, which is valid, considering that Potions is his favourite class and Snape his favourite teacher. There is bound to be some sort of influence there somewhere. But I have been thrown a bone and there's no way I'm letting go now. Gryffindor stubbornness, curiosity and cautionlessness: the three main ingredients of the House, after all.

"No," I stand my ground.

"What the fuck do you mean, no? Unless you want to shit out your intestines and vomit eels, you will let me out _right now_!"

A first-year would have passed out in fright by now; a Hufflepuff of any age would have soiled himself. But I am a Gryffindor in my seventh year and I know a bit more about magic.

"No," I repeat calmly.

"Unlock that fucking door, Potter. I am not joking, I _will_ curse you."

His whole body is vibrating with anger by this point, hands held tightly at his sides, fists clenched, one of which around his wand. Poor piece of wood, any more pressure and it will snap in two. It is rare to see him like this. Usually he is so composed, so perfectly calm and unemotional. I must really be pushing his buttons. I have to admit that I am somewhat proud of myself for making him reveal his emotions.

And people say that the Slytherin doesn't have any feelings. Oh, but he has many. Anger being the most prevalent one. I wonder what it would take to make him feel something else, something more…positive, I guess. And less destructive. Of course, this is hypocritical of me. After all, my short temper is quite legendary throughout Hogwarts.

"You can try, but I'm not letting you out of here until I hear you repeat what you said before you decided to flee, and an explanation."

Others would have probably thought that I am insane for standing up to him when he is this enraged, that I have a death wish. And I do, so I guess that's another reason why I'm not unlocking the door right this second.

"_Furnunculus_,"the first spell is fired in my direction.

Extra DADA training has served me well as I duck and the spell hits the windowpanes behind me.

"And here I thought I was duelling a seventh-year Slytherin. Guess I was wrong. You'll have to do better than that."

Another growl and another spell,"_Diffindo_!"

I block it with a defence spell and send one of my own offences.

"_Orchideous_."

Okay, so perhaps not an offence per se. But it is immensely amusing to see his look of surprise and annoyance as a bouquet of brilliant white orchids spills out of the tip of his wand. Giving it a swift jerk, the flowers dissipate from his wand and it is pointed at me once more.

"_Locomotor Mortis_!"

This one hits its target and I tumble to the ground, my legs bound tightly together by invisible ropes.

"_Expelliarmus_!" I send the hex before he has a chance to open his mouth.

His wand flies out of his right hand and lands with a dry clank in some corner of the dark classroom. With a counter-curse I am on my feet again.

"I really expected more of you, you know," I grin. "Must say I am pretty disappointed. The Great Dr-"

Before I know what is happening, he whispers something inaudible and I am lifted off the ground, turned upside-down and hung in the air by my ankle, something invisible holding me firmly in place. A second later my wand is no longer in my hand.

"Still disappointed, are you, Potter?"

Ah, there is that familiar smug expression again. But that isn't my main concern at the moment. What is, is how the hell did he do that without a wand? I have heard of wandless magic, of course, and can perform _Accio_ without my wand. But I thought only very advanced and experienced wizards and witches could achieve a high level of wandless magic. At least that's what Hermione was prattling on about once during lunch, or was it in the library? Doesn't matter. I have to admit that I have underestimated him. And so I say, "No, quite surprised, actually. It seems I have underestimated the Prince of Slytherin."

I guess one becomes more honest when dangling upside-down in the air, what with all the blood rushing to one's head. Or maybe it's just me.

"You always did, Potter."

"Okay, I acknowledge that. Will you let me down now?"

"And why should I do that?"

"Well, it's not a really comfortable position. Making me quite dizzy, to be honest."

I see him walking around the classroom, his eyes searching the floor for his wand. He picks up one, which even upside-down and from a distance, I can tell is my own. A few meters later he finds his own. Throughout this I realize, in pleasant surprise, that my glasses have somehow managed to stay on my face, instead of falling on the ground and breaking. Even though I have finally mastered the _Reparo _spell, it would still have been rather bothersome.

"That's not a good enough excuse, Potter."

The "Potter" irks me, but it does seem inappropriate to ask him to call me by my first name after locking him in and having that little makeshift duel.

He takes a seat in front of me on a discarded chair, his face on the same level as my own. I gulp, and I can see him watching my Adam's apple bob up and down. This time an indefinable emotion glimmers in his eyes, but as soon as it was there, it's gone. I wish I knew how to read him better, but I doubt even his parents know how to do that.

"I'm afraid that other than the discomfort, I've got no more arguments."

"You'll have to do better than that," he repeats my pervious words with a smirk.

"Hmm… Where did you learn how to do wandless magic anyway?" The question is out before I can stop it.

"Always sticking your nose into other people's business. It will get you in trouble one day, Potter."

"Ha! You are such a hypocrite. You're here in the first place because you stuck _your_ nose into _my_ business. And no need to worry about me getting into trouble, it's a rather common occurrence anyway."

"If you say so. Now let me out of here."

Ah, back to the flight instinct, are we? And here I was hoping that he was enjoying my company.

"Kind of difficult to do whilst hanging in the air and without a wand. Unlike your superior arse, I'm not as advanced at wandlessness."

"Really? I would have thought that the great Boy Wonder was."

"Do you think I'd still be hanging here if that was the case?"

"True," he pauses before asking, "So what _can _you do using wandless magic?"

"And who's being curious now?"

"I don't think you're in the position to be derisive, Potter."

"Oh, but that's no fun. It's not like you own the copyrights of sarcasm. Haven't you ever heard of sharing?"

"You are terribly irritating when trying to be sardonic."

"Says the Slytherin King of Prats."

"I thought I was Prince? My, aren't I going up the ladder in leaps and bounds."

"Oh well, you know, shagging your way up would accelerate the process."

Yes, I am bitter about the very wide and deep pond in which he dips his wand, so to speak. Especially considering that I am not part of it. Nope, not Potter. He might be the Boy Who Lived but he's still not good enough. What would I have to do to gain his attention, other than hang upside-down in midair? By attention I mean more than just sharing a witty repartee. Should I become evil and grow breasts? No, we've already been over his bisexuality. Thus the "deep" and "wide" comment.

And _no_, I will not become aroused by the thought of him doing anything relative to deep and wide. How is this even possible? All of my blood has currently flooded my head (the one attached to my neck – get your mind out of the gutter!). God, what have I done to deserve this punishment? Oh, right, suicide is a sin and all that. Am I already in hell then?

"Are you finished with your inner monologue yet?"

Wha-? Can he read my thoughts as well as do spells wandlessly?

"What?" I manage to rasp out. This upside-down thing is really starting to make me feel ill.

"You're an open book, Potter. Exposing your emotions on your face for all to see."

Shitfuckshit. Does this mean…? Come on, Harry, get your bravado together.

"And what am I currently feeling, Great Seer of Slytherins?"

"How many hours do you spend each day thinking up all these nicknames?" he asks snidely, and in my mind I answer, _"Countless hours during sleepless nights."_ Then he goes on, "Well, at the moment I can tell that you're about to pass out, if I take into account how red your face is. Perhaps I should take you down then. _Liberacorpus_," he says coolly as he points his wand at me.

Already expecting the harsh collision of my skull against the stone floor, I am surprised that I fall on something relatively soft and harmless. Opening my eyes, I see that he has somehow had the quick reaction (and consideration) of conjuring a mattress on the floor below me.

"Thank you," I say, making myself comfortable in a seating position.

It doesn't feel right. He is staring down at me from his chair and I feel uncomfortable. As I am about to rise to my feet, he surprises me once again by swiftly getting up and taking a seat beside me. The mattress is certainly big enough for two people to sit on with some considerable space between them, yet he decides to sit close enough that our shoulders are touching. I pray to God that he didn't notice my gasp, but then I remember that I am currently on God's black list and it is doubtful that he is willing to help me at present. I can see God smirking down at me from somewhere above, writing a letter to Santa Claus to tell him that I've been a naughty boy this year and don't deserve any pressies. Damn, the stupidest thoughts running through your mind when the person you fancy (like mad, might I add) is at a kissing distance from you.

"Here," he says quietly as he hands me my wand back.

I am certain that he did it at purpose just to watch me squirm when his fingers "accidentally" grazed mine.

"Are you alright, Harry? You're looking a bit flushed."

He's Harry-ing me again! No shit I look flushed, he is saying my name with that dazzling smile on- No, wait! Smile? Yes, definitively a smile. Not a smirk, or a mocking sneer, but a proper, no-strings-attached smile. Oh, Harry, you're done for. There is no way I will ever be able to feel this way about anyone but him. And I don't care how much I sound like a foolish ten-year-old with a crush. He appears so much more approachable, so much more open, and so less cruel and snobbish. It is as if nothing exists but the object at which he is aiming his smile. And I feel stupidly proud that I'm the one he is smiling at.

And then, and then, and then… His hand, with the thoughtfulness worth a hundred, a thousand, Madam Pomfreys, is on my forehead, feeling how hot it is. I am sure that at the moment it is ablaze, scalding his palm and fingertips where they lay, soft against my skin. If he heard my quiet whimper, he doesn't show it. He is gazing at me intently, his hand travelling slightly lower as it feathers over my cheek.

"You're burning up, Harry," he whispers.

I can't stand this anymore. His teasing, his hands and his eyes, the way his lips move as they form my name. In a flash, I am up and run to the door.

"_Relevo Exitus_," I all but shout out.

And I am running down the hallway, intent on getting away as fast and as far as I can. But something stops me suddenly in my tracks. Laughter. Clear and piercing in the silence of the fifth floor. Not arrogant or mocking or malevolent. Just laughter. A sound usually made when amused and cheerful. _His _laughter.

Realization crashes down on me and I make my way back. He did that all on purpose, so I would unlock the door and let him out. Well, we'll see about that! That good-for-nothing, cunning, taunting, Slytherin…

I am once again in the classroom where his laughter has died as soon as he sees me back in the doorway. A look of surprise and that arched eyebrow greet me. I slam the door shut behind me and move back to the mattress. This is it, the point of no return. I will need to go to the library straight after this so I can research some very effective and deadly poison and get brewing tonight. There is no way I will face him or the rest of the school after I've done this.

"Wha-"

I cut him off by pushing him roughly on his back. Unceremoniously I straddle his thighs and collide my mouth against his. My hand is in his hair, as silky and smooth as I imagined. My other one is holding the back of his neck, yet another part of his anatomy that I have fantasised about. And his lips? Soft, pillowy, pliable, subtle, surprised, perf-

Unresponsive. His arms are stiff by his sides, his body still and his mouth agape in shock. Well, it's not like I expected otherwise, but the pang in my heart is definitively painful. I pull away slightly and look at his stunned face. His lips are a deep red and wet, making me think of ripe cherries. His eyes wide open and looking at me, but hazy to the point where I think that he doesn't actually _see_ me. I start to mumble my apology, "S-sorry, don't know what I…"

But he is not listening. His grey eyes turn a molten silver, gaining an incandescent light to them. And then he does something that for the life of me I would never have expected, and that even a professional Seer wouldn't have seen coming, let alone Trelawney.

His lips are upon mine, but this time they are fully operational and responsive. Yielding and dominating at the same time, pulling me away from this world and to some heavenly place. It doesn't matter that the Killing Curse hasn't worked; I am dying of something far more enjoyable.

His sharp tongue slithers through the his mouth and slides against my bottom lip, not only requesting but demanding entrance. And who am I to decline? Wouldn't want to seem rude, after all. Yep, definitively dying. Where _did_ he learn how to kiss like that? Okay, let's not go there, that just brings forth unpleasant thoughts. And I don't want to think about his past snogging escapades at the moment. But his tongue tastes like toffee and tea with no sugar or milk and something indefinably _him_ that I don't even try to stifle my moan. It vibrates from my mouth and is pushed into his by way of our lips, and I could have smirked, if my lips weren't already busy, when I hear him return one.

Stupid stupid lungs, why do you need oxygen? We both pull away reluctantly and stare at one another with round clouded eyes, our breaths coming out in short irregular pants. I know that I will _have_ to say something at one point, but I'm afraid that a single word would ruin this. I'm afraid that, if he says something, I will wake up, startled and sweaty and hard in my bed, after yet another dream where he plays the central role.

As if reading my thoughts (perhaps I _am_ an open book), he kisses the side of my mouth delicately, as if trying to reassure me that this is indeed happening and that we are both awake and sound. Well, perhaps not the latter, but awake nonetheless.

We suddenly realize our awkward position. I am still straddling his legs and it is definitively _not _my wand which is currently digging into his thigh. And, if I dare to assume so, neither is it his wand prodding into my leg. Both of my hands are still tangled in his (now mussed) hair, whilst his are wrapped tightly around my waist. If someone were to walk in, there would have been no question as to what we were up to.

Shuffling around clumsily, we sit beside each other on the mattress. I am not sure about him, but I am currently desperately pleading with a certain part of my body to _get back down_!

"So…" he starts, yet it is evident that he doesn't know how to continue.

"So?"

He clears his throat, finally looking back at me. Once more, the ten-year-old-with-crush image comes to mind as I blush.

"That was rather…eh…unexpected," he says, his voice surprisingly steady, if hesitant.

"Err…yeah," being the verbal genius that I am, I find nothing better to say.

"But…nice."

"_Nice_?"

I am appalled. I just had the best snog of my life and he calls it _nice_?

"Alright, it was absofuckinglutely fantastic, happy?"

Yeah. I am as giddy as the Easter bunny on ecstasy.

"And I don't regret it," he adds bluntly.

"Really?" I squeak out.

"Yes, really."

"But- but-" I fail and start again, "You _hate_ me!"

That thought hits me like a brick out of thin air. I did momentarily forget about that.

"Hate is an awfully strong word. And unless you haven't noticed, I haven't insulted you for over a year now."

"But you always ignore me! You don't even look at me. You're always cold and-"

"Never judge a book by its cover, Potter," he interrupts.

A few moments of silence pass, him keeping respectfully quiet as my overloaded brain tries to process the information it has just been handed.

"So you _like_ me?" I ask meekly, failing miserably at not sounding like I would die if he doesn't.

"It's a bit obvious, isn't it?"

"Not to me it isn't."

"You really are daft, Potter," he chuckles and leans into me, giving me a kiss on a sensitive (as I have just happily discovered) spot behind my ear. "Yes, I do."

As soon as I am alone I plan to whoop and shout and cry and sing and dance with joy. My heart is beating wildly and cheering, _"I told you so! I told you so!"_ God, I am sorry for ever doubting you. I will be a good boy from now on and won't commit any sins (except perhaps that lust one). Thank you, thank you, thank you!

"Yeah, don't rush and answer back. I'm not feeling at all vulnerable here," he comments sarcastically.

"I lo- like you too," I say, barely covering my slip-up, even though, knowing my luck, he caught it anyway.

By the look in his silver-grey eyes, I think that he did. He leans in again and kisses me, softly, tenderly, giving me wordless promises of his affections. I sigh when he pulls away.

"So you won't be attempting any of that suicide bollocks anymore?" he asks, a guarantee of lengthily punishment glimmering in his eyes if I dare to disagree.

"No, I won't."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise."

"Good," he says succinctly before kissing me again.

As my heart drums and sings joyfully, my mind cannot help but yield to the euphoria I am experiencing. My last conscious thought, before I become too occupied to think, is, _"Perhaps I shouldn't give up on love just yet."_

**The End**


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